When the Mansion residents painted this sheet for Maria and me and the Army of Good, they were thinking of the Pandemic. Now, it means even more.

When the space between us all is made safe by honest speaking and receptive listening, I am sometimes able to speak my truth in a powerful form, one that goes farther and more profound than opinions.

Those moments are not frequent and not rare. But I know when they have come, I can feel it all over my body.

In my stories here, I believe I began to discover the truth that sometimes emerges as I tell the story of my life.

Truth is complicated to know or see. It is both alive and beyond words.

In our world, and on the Internet, it is challenging to find speaking I can trust and receptive to listening. I never see the broken parts of our country more quickly than when I see the angry and confused messages that come tumbling in.

People are lonely, angry, open to stories of hate, and grievance. I think they are food in a way, nourishing to the sad souls. I know if I meet them and know them it would be different, we would speak differently to one another.

The irony of the Internet is that it brings us together and keeps us apart at the same time.

Some of us tell our stories, and others shout at them from a distance.

I am a storyteller, and I believe that stories go to the heart of being human, they serve some of our greatest needs.

Parker Palmer, the spiritual writer, says that stories pass along our traditions, confess failings, heal wounds, engender hope and strengthen our sense of community.

I believe that is true for me.

My stories were frightening to tell when I began telling them here.

Stories can make us vulnerable to being ridiculed, exploited, dismissed, criticized, ignored. And it is much easier for people to send hateful messages than say them out loud.

I have neighbors I’ve known for 15 years and know nothing of their lives.

We have made it frightening to tell our stories; I know so many people who can hardly believe that I do it every day. I love telling stories; it has been good for me.

When we can’t hear one another’s stories, or when we succumb to the fears about telling them, we all lose something of value.

The more we know about one another, the more we know about someone, the harder it is to harm them or hate them.

I think that is the source of so much division and suspicion: we rarely know the people we are talking to.

Thanks for listening to my stories. As long as I can breathe and move my fingers, I will keep on telling them; I might even get myself to the truth about me one day.